Queen of the Dead (12 page)

As I've said, Tom kept two rooms for himself. The outer one included a desk, a conference table, a bulletin board, and a few chairs. This was where he did his “Chief” stuff. The inner one, separated by a blanket hung across the opening, had a bed and small dresser in it.

It also—now—had a gurney.

We both sat in silence, Tom on his bed and me on a folding chair, waiting. Just waiting. Something I'd never been good at. Agent Hugo Ramirez stirred and murmured. He even rolled over a couple of times, but it was almost sixty minutes before our—what? Guest? Prisoner?—finally came around.

Ramirez swallowed dryly. His eyes settled on me. He blinked. I half-expected him to call me Karl again. But instead, he whispered, “Water?”

I got up and offered him a plastic bottle, holding it to his lips. He drank some and then nodded and lay back.

“Mi duele la cabeza,”
he muttered.

“Huh?” I said.

“Usted va a estar bien,”
Tom replied.

I looked at him. “You speak Spanish?”

“A little,” he replied with a shrug.

The sounds of our voices seemed to rouse the FBI guy a little further. The next time he spoke, it was in faintly accented English. “Who are you?”

“I'm Tom Jefferson,” the Chief said. “This here's Will Ritter. He's Karl's son.”

Ramirez digested this news. His dark eyes regarded me thoughtfully. “Where am I?”

“Someplace safe,” Tom replied.

Ramirez's laugh turned into a cough. He tried to sit up on the gurney. That was when he noticed the handcuffs fastening his right wrist to the gurney rail. He scowled at Tom. “What's
this
?”

“I'm sorry,” the Chief told him. “We…need to keep you here for a while.”

“We? Look, kid…”

“Don't call me ‘kid,'” Tom said flatly. “I'm the Chief of the Undertakers.”

“The Undertakers,” he echoed, as if he knew the word.

Tom nodded. “We're the ones who saved your life today, Agent Ramirez. You'd been snatched by a group of cops who are part of an…organization…we call the ‘Corpses.' Getting you away from them wasn't easy, and my sister got herself hurt doin' it. So I'm looking for a little respect from you.”

“Respect?” Ramirez snapped. “I'm chained to the wall…Chief. Now I don't know what kind of game you boys are playing, but this is what's called abducting a federal agent, and it's a crime!”

Well, he sure seems wide awake now!

“I got that in the back of my mind,” Tom said. “Now…how's about telling me what happened to you last night?”

“I'm not here to answer questions, son,” Ramirez replied.

Tom slowly stood, his eyes flashing. Whenever he did that, he seemed to fill the room. “I'm not your son, Agent Ramirez. Right now, I'm your jailer. I'm the man who decides when you eat and when and where you get to use the toilet. This is my place, and these are my people. You'd best remember that.”

Ramirez studied him—more curious, I thought, than intimated. “Chief of the Undertakers,” he mused.

“Straight up.”

“And what
are
the Undertakers? A street gang?”

“No, agent,” replied Tom. “We're what you'd call a resistance group.”

“Resistance,” Ramirez echoed. “Against who? These…Corpses?”

Tom nodded.

“And the Corpses are an organization, you say. One made up of Philadelphia police officers?”

“Partly. The Corpses have wormed their way in to key positions all over the city. Teachers. Local officials. There are even Corpse doctors working at some of the hospitals. They're everywhere.”

Ramirez didn't respond to that right away. Instead, his gaze grew distant, inward. After a few moments, we heard him mutter, “There's no way it could be
that
big.”

Tom regarded him. “That ain't the kind of response I expected, agent. Makes me think you know a little something about all this. Care to share?”

“Not with you…Chief,” Ramirez replied. Then, after he tested his chains again, he added, “What do I have to do for you to let me go?”

Tom sat back down on his bed. “You could start by understanding that we're on the same side. Karl Ritter founded the Undertakers more than three years ago to fight the Corpses. He died in that fight. So have a lot of us. Now, from the way you reacted to Will earlier, I'm guessin' you knew his old man. True or false?”

Ramirez's eyes slid to mine. “Are you really Karl's kid?”

“Yeah,” I said. It was the first word I'd uttered during this…interview? Interrogation? From the onset, Tom had asked me to keep quiet—at least at first. “He's gotta get that
I'm
the dude he needs to deal with,” he'd told me at the time.

“Your dad was a good man,” Ramirez said. “I'm sorry we lost him.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “Except he wasn't ‘lost.' He was murdered…by Kenny Booth.”

This was probably more than I should have said. Tom gave me a sharp look. He seemed about to speak, but then the FBI guy said something that shut us both right up.

“I know.”

Tom and I stared at him.

“Well…I suspected,” Ramirez added. “That's how this whole thing got started.”

The Chief said, “Sounds to me like we got a lot to tell each other.”

Ramirez regarded him. “Maybe so, Chief. But if you want me to trust you, then I think I'm due a little of that in return. Uncuff me.”

Tom shook his head. “Can't. Not yet.”

“Why not? What are you afraid I'll do?”

“Fact is…you're an adult, and that means I got no idea what you'll do. I got the safety of my people to consider.”

“What?” Ramirez asked. “No grown-ups in the Undertakers?”

Tom replied, “Plenty of grown-ups, agent. But no adults…not since Karl died.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“We're real, agent. And you're here. Now, you'll be fed well, and we'll find you some fresh clothes. Ain't nobody gonna hurt you. You got my word on that. But until I'm convinced you either can't or won't make trouble for us, you'll
stay
here.”

“You're committing a federal crime, son.”

“You said that already,” Tom replied.

Ramirez dropped his head back down on the gurney, clearly frustrated. “I don't believe this…”

“You're mad, agent. I get that. But I got no choice. So here's a suggestion that might speed things up.”

The FBI guy eyed him. “I'm listening.”

“Tell us what went down between you and the Corpses last night.”

Ramirez rattled his right wrist. “And…if I do…will you unlock this thing?”

The Chief replied, “It'd be a step in the right direction.”

“Not good enough,” Ramirez said. “If I'm going to compromise an active federal investigation, I'm going to need a gesture of trust.”

“Federal investigation,” Tom echoed. “That may be what
you
call it. But my people, we call it a war. Now I don't know nothing about your ‘active investigation,' but I guarantee this much: You know
less
than nothing about what's really going down in this city…and you wouldn't believe most of it if you
did
know.”

“You keep talking about your people…these Undertakers. How many of you are there?”

Tom hesitated for a moment, not because he didn't know the number—quite the opposite; he probably saw it in his sleep—but because he didn't know how much he should reveal. Finally, he replied, “Almost a hundred and fifty.”

Ramirez blinked. “A hundred and fifty…kids? All kids?”

Tom nodded.

“And where do you find these soldiers of yours?”

Tom said, “No.”

“No, what?”

“If you want to hear more about
us
, you're gonna have to tell me more about yourself.”

Ramirez's face darkened. “This isn't a game. If you really do have that many minors in this gang of yours—”

It was out before I could stop it. “We're not a gang! We're an army! One that my father started and ended up dying for!”

I could almost feel Ramirez taking in my slender thirteen-year-old frame, my freckled face, my shock of red hair—and dismissing me. “You're kids,” he muttered.

“Kids who just saved your life,” Tom replied flatly. “Get some rest, agent. I'll be in later with food and clothes.” Then he unsnapped the radio watch from his wrist and tossed it onto the gurney. “If you feel like talking, just hit the button on the side and you'll get one of our Chatters. Ask for me.” Then he stood, and with a nod in my direction, he started toward the curtained doorway. I followed.

Ramirez picked up the watch with his free hand, looking it over as if it were from Mars or something. “What is this? Now just wait a minute! You're in a lot of trouble here, Jefferson!”

Tom paused and looked back at him. In that moment, his eyes seemed about a thousand years old. “Trouble, Agent Ramirez? You don't know the meaning of the word.”

Then he led me out through his office and into the corridor. When I started to speak, he touched a finger to his lips and kept walking until we were a good distance away. “Listen, bro. I need you to go see the Monkeys and get them to build me a door…a big, heavy, bolted door…that we can use to seal that room up. And see if they can put a little window in it—about eye level. Make sure it's thick glass. Tell Alex I'll need it soon…no later'n dawn tomorrow.”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.” Except it
was
a problem—sort of.

The Monkey Boss wasn't exactly a fan of mine.

“What's the door for?” I asked. “I mean…we got that dude chained to the wall!”

Tom replied, “It ain't that. But we can't keep him forever, and I think maybe I got an idea about how we might convince him.”

“What idea?”

“Later, okay? I need to worry over it a little longer 'fore I share.”

“Okay,” I replied.

“In the meantime, nobody talks to Ramirez. Not without me being there. Spread the word for me? Tell all the bosses.”

“Sure. Where you gonna be?”

“In the infirmary,” he replied. “With my sister.”

As he walked off, I saw that Tom's shoulders were slumped. He looked tired. “You think you
can
convince him?” I asked suddenly.

He glanced back at me. “Fifty-fifty,” he sighed. “To his eyes…we're just kids.”

Then he headed off down the corridor, leaving me standing there, trying real hard not to think what I was thinking.

We
are
just
kids.

In the old Haven, most of the daily Undertaker business had been conducted in this giant space called the Big Room. There'd been a high ceiling and lots of square footage that let each of the crews spread out and do their thing.

The new Haven was very different.

In this forgotten subbasement of cobwebs, wild cats, and crumbling bricks, each crew had been forced to lay claim to a space to make its own. The Hackers kept their computers all in a single dark, cavelike room with more monitors in it than lights. The Chatters set up their telephone tables in a spot near Haven's geographic middle so they could tap into the city's phone lines.

On first moving in, the Monkeys had spent days setting everything up—stringing electrical wire and tapping into the city's utilities to get us power and water. On top of that, they installed space heaters to keep us from freezing to death and bathroom facilities—but, trust me, the less I say about
that
, the better.

It isn't pretty.

To accomplish all this, the Monkeys claimed the biggest spot they could find. Their room was really three rooms linked by wide, crumbling archways—jungles of work benches, supply shelving, and tool racks that had somehow earned the nickname the Monkey Barrel.

Overall, it wasn't any more or less comfortable than the rest of headquarters. The ceiling was low. It smelled of cat droppings and old mold, and from all the activity in here, the air always seemed half filled with dust.

But despite all that, it was actually a pretty cool place. There were always interesting happenings, some new project in the works. Hammers hammered. Saws sawed. Welding torches welded. It was easily the noisiest place in Haven.

I'd probably have liked coming if it wasn't for one thing. Or really, one person.

Alex Bobson.

One of the first people I'd met at Haven had been Tara Monroe, the old Monkey Boss. I'd been a scared twelve-year-old back then—had it really only been four months ago?—and she'd taken the time to be nice to me. I'd liked her.

Then, a couple of weeks later, Tara had died saving me and a bunch of other recruits from the Corpses. She'd been sixteen years old.

Alex, one of her crewers, became her replacement. Like Tara, I'd met him on my first day as an Undertaker. Unlike Tara, he
hadn't
been nice. I'd disliked him from the start, and nothing had happened since to change my opinion.

The kid was a first-class jerk.

Alex was taller than me, three years older, and he had muscles where I wished I did, though he was nowhere near as big as Tom or the Burgermeister. Helene sometimes joked that Alex needed those broad shoulders to rest his “chip” on.

It always seemed funnier when I didn't have to talk to the guy.

“Hey, dudes!” Alex called when he noticed me. “The birthday boy's decided to pay us a visit!” As some of his crewers laughed, the Monkey Boss abandoned the bike he'd been servicing and sauntered over to where I stood, a few feet inside the Barrel's doorway. “So…what are you now? Twelve?”

“Thirteen,” I said.

He made a show of eyeing me skeptically. “Thirteen? You sure? You look more like eleven to me.” This sparked more crewer laughter, though I noticed it sounded a little forced. Not every Monkey was as big a jerk as their boss.

I said, “Tom sent me to tell you he needs a door built between his office and his bedroom. He wants it as strong as you can make it.”

“That right?” Alex replied, smirking.

I nodded. “And he wants a window in it at eye level. Thickest glass you can find…but small.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah. And he needs it by dawn tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh. Got somethin' in writing?”

“What?” I asked.

“Something in the Chief's handwriting that proves you're telling the truth.”

I glared at him. “Why would I be lying about something like this?”

He shrugged. “Some kind of joke maybe. Busy work for my crew. You celebrity types are always ordering people around for the fun of it. It's a power trip.”

“I'm not a ‘celebrity,'” I said.

His smirk turned into a humorless grin. “Sure you are, Ritter. Heck…you're probably the closest thing the Undertakers got to a mascot.”

I hoped, in the uneven light, my reddening face wouldn't show. But one look at Alex indicated otherwise.

Then, from somewhere behind him, someone called, “Will ain't nobody's mascot!”

Alex whirled around, scowling. He didn't like it when one of his crewers contradicted him. Behind him now, I peered over his shoulder into the shadows that filled the back of the Monkey Barrel.

A huge, hulking form emerged from the darkness.

“Burger!” Alex snapped. “I'm pretty sure I gave you a ton of machine parts to organize and stack.”

“Yeah,” Dave said. “I'm done.”

“Done? That's a load of crap! There were something like thirty crates!”

The Burgermeister shrugged. “Took me a little longer than I expected.”

Alex frowned, his fists on his hips. “After that, you were supposed to haul that equipment down to the cafeteria.”

Dave stopped in front of the Monkey Boss, towering over him. His thick blond hair was matted with sweat, and his face wore its “coming storm” look—the one I felt sure had struck fear into the hearts of many a kid from elementary through high school.

Back in the old days. Before the war.

“That's done too,” Dave said, his voice rumbling like thunder. “Just got back in time to catch you dissing Will.”

“It's cool, Burgermeister,” I said.

“And it's not your business!” Alex snapped. He was trying to appear in charge, but I noticed he kept shifting nervously from foot to foot, like a man facing down a bull about to charge.

“It
ain't
cool, Will,” Dave replied. Then he fixed Alex with eyes like blue granite. “And you messing with my friend
makes
it my business.”

“Your friend,” Alex echoed. “Oh, I know all about your friend. The great Will Ritter! The prodigal son of Karl Ritter himself! Tom's golden boy! The kid who made us abandon our perfectly good headquarters for this dank, smelly sewer hole. The kid who thinks nothing of sticking his neck out—and anybody else's neck for that matter!”

Dave's hands rolled up into fists the size of river rocks.

“It sucks down here,” he said in that low, rumbling voice. “We all get that. But that don't mean I gotta listen to you insult Will.”

“What you gotta do,” Bobson said, “is whatever I
tell
you to do! You're lucky I even let you on my crew. You don't know one end of a screwdriver from another, and you're about as good with tools as a two-year-old!”

Dave took a step toward Alex, his eyes blazing. As I watched, the considerable muscles in his right arm tightened, announcing the coming blow like the hush before a storm.

This
is
about
to
get
bad.

So Alex, being Alex, decided to bring it home. “As for your ‘friend'…as far as I'm concerned, Will Ritter is a skinny, no-talent show-off with more luck and name recognition than value!”

That
did
it.

Standing as I was behind the Monkey Boss, I did the only thing I could: I kicked him in the back of the knee.

The thing about a kick behind the knee is that if it's done right, you're going down. It doesn't matter how big you are or how good your balance is. Unless you're a flamingo, you're hitting the dirt.

And I did it right.

My timing was good too because the very moment that Alex tumbled backward, his arms pinwheeling, Dave was delivering a roundhouse punch with just slightly less force behind it than a ballistic missile.

Alex fell, and Dave swung, overbalancing due to his sudden lack of target and nearly toppling over himself. Then, as he staggered a few steps, trying to recapture his balance, I stepped forward and placed one of my own feet squarely on Alex's chest, leaning down just hard enough to make it look good.

The Monkey Boss lay stunned, staring up at me from the dirt floor.

“Just make the door,” I told him flatly, “and keep your opinions to yourself.”

Dave came to stand beside me. He looked disappointed and maybe a bit confused by the sudden turn of events, but he recovered quickly and added a hearty “Yeah!”

Alex glared at both of us. He didn't say a word. Around us, the Monkey Barrel had gone uncharacteristically quiet. This little incident had cost their boss some face. That wasn't going to improve our relationship—but at least he still
had
a face.

The Burgermeister patted me on the back at bit harder than necessary. “Come on, Will. I could use some food.”

Then he headed for the Monkey Barrel exit.

I gave a three count before I removed my foot from Alex's chest. Leaning down, I whispered sharply, “I just saved you from having your jaw broken. Remember that.”

Then I straightened and followed Dave.

From behind me, I heard the Monkey Boss shout, a little hoarsely, “You know what I remember, Ritter? I remember that surprise party you got last night. How many of them you been to since you joined up? None, right? My birthday was last month. I turned sixteen. Where was
my
cake?”

Dave muttered something under his breath about Alex's possible parentage.

I ignored him.

Though deep down, I knew Alex was right.